


Exciter / Loomer

by PaxVobis



Series: Needles [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Blood, Developing Friendships, Don't Try This At Home, Drug Abuse, Drugged Sex, Excessive Judas Priest, Gay, Gay Male Character, Guns N Roses References, Homophobic Language, Implied Pickles/Rob Halford, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Metal References, Morning After, Murderface Does Is Gay, Musicians, My Bloody Valentine - Freeform, Oral Sex, Painkillers, Pillow Talk, Preklok, Rampant Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, References to Surgery, Strapping Young Lad References, Subtle Godklok Via Judas Priest, Trans Male Character, Unrequited Crush, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Nathan's away for the weekend and Skwisgaar's a twat, so Magnus and Murderface attempt to teach Pickles about Real Metal.  Hands are torn up, gay crises are had, and a large amount of painkillers taken - and Pickles relapses.Magnus/Pickles, R18+, non-explicit sex, explicit drug use, dubious consent due to everyone being high all the time.





	Exciter / Loomer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [banerising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banerising/gifts).



The second rehearsal, two weekends on from Magnus’ Accident (to be delicate), was poorly attended.  Something of a kick in the teeth for Pickles, so used to a smaller band and thus full attendance - but Nathan was away, visiting his parents for the weekend since an aunt had fallen sick, and the Swede took that as an excuse not to attend as well and instead skip up to Madison for a rare show with Obfuscated Serpent or some shit.   _Ams pointless, widdout wholes band to does rehearsals._  But Pickles, off the back of mixing a whole album with half a band incompetent or missing, knew that wasn’t true.  There was always work to be done.

So instead of Mordhaus, they ended up spending the whole weekend in Magnus’ apartment, Pickles, Magnus and Murderface, with the drums salvaged from the other apartment and squeezed into the kitchen and the two guitarists loping around on the arm chairs, feet kicked up on their amps or straddling them or standing on them as they got into it.  Mission: Teach Pickles Real Metal.  None of this S.O.D. hardcore bullshit.  And Real Metal, to Magnus and Murderface, meant thrash.

They played all Saturday.  Without Nathan’s paranoid stare or Skwisgaar’s boredom to contend with, Magnus and William - who, Pickles gathered, were old friends despite their age difference - put Pickles through the absolute wringer with every song in their repertoires.  At first this was intimidating to Pickles, with Dethklok songs he didn’t know and which were challenging and under-worked, and songs from Magnus’ old bands, and even some he’d memorised from Nathan’s previous band, very simple pieces but ones without established drumlines - or not any that Magnus could articulate.  But the session quickly descended into smoking weed and grinding through Slayer and Anthrax covers with Magnus on vocals and Murderface’s grin spread wide.  Both men knew every word and note by heart, drilled it out easily with Pickles struggling to keep in step.  At the end of every song the two would reel and hoot and congratulate each other on a great show, and Pickles just watched this dick-sucking display with a faint smirk and twirled the drum sticks around his fingers idly.  

They were okay, fine, good guitarists with very original tones, both of them; Magnus’ crunchy, glitchy stacked overdrives sounding like a bunch of amateur soldering and spilt Heinekens had gone into their sound, an experimental tone derived from masking poor fingering skills, and Murderface sticking more to mastering fundamentals with a confidence that didn’t often arise from bassists.  But by far the most impressive and the most terrifying thing was Magnus’ vocals, which were howled up from the bowels of some crack smoking Vesuvius - _I AM THE LAW!_ screeched out of rotting, scalded lungs as though he’d spray the lacerated pieces of bloody tissue out over the armchair he stood on at any moment.  

It frightened Pickles, in a way he didn’t understand, to recall being subject to this man’s affection when contrasted with this raving, lunatic madness.  Put some things into perspective.  When Magnus screamed like that, the bloodthirst in his eyes, Pickles felt like he figured Tony must have felt, seeing him drag on the ends of an interviewer’s bolo tie with a foot in the guy’s chest to garrotte him at that MTV Awards thing in ‘92.  A bad year, you know.

Meth, thought Pickles, watching Magnus light up behind him in the kitchen in a break between joints and NOFX covers, was a bad, bad drug.

Magnus was positively bouncing by nightfall, even with his neighbours pounding on the drywall and yelling at them – they never called the police, he insisted, since they were selling drugs, and besides, Magnus was a good customer.  So on they ground through Napalm Death, through Sleep, anything they could stick on the stereo and challenge Pickles with.  For Pickles’ part, he picked up the drumlines instantly and expounded upon them, had always had a talent for that, inborn.  Too bad Snakes N Barrels had already had a drummer, and only needed a hood ornament when he’d come by.  The two other men challenged and tricked him with the hardest shit they could think up - Tool and Sepultura, barely keeping up themselves.  Pickles aced it all.  Then Magnus had an idea.

“Bet ya can’t sing and play,” he challenged, the armchair he stood on rocking under his feet.  Pickles cocked an eyebrow up at him, perched on his stool above a litter of cheap, broken sticks on the linoleum floor.  

“You mother fuck,” he said, and pointed one of the sticks he held at him.  “You’re on.”

And Magnus cackled down at him.

“But, ehh…”  Pickles twirled the sticks idly.  “Gotta be a song I know, right.  I ain’t got a brain for words like I got for beats.  So none of this… freaky shit, right?”

“You must know some of it,” Magnus purred, descending from the armchair with a long step, but Pickles shook his head.

“Nope.  I mean, I could do ya, uh, _Killin In The Name_ \- - ”

“ _Gay_ ,” said Murderface, sprawled in another armchair with his feet up on Magnus’ amp, “Rage is gay.”

“Pickles is gay,” said Magnus, smirking, and that made Murderface sit up.

“Yeah, yer fuckin gay!” he said, ignoring Pickles’ whine of, _c’mon, dude, I ain’t gay…_ “I talked to Soph, bout you being in the band and all - - ”

“Thought I said not to go runnin your mouth about that,” snarled Pickles, but Murderface talked over him blindly.

“ - - and, see, she said you did that real faggy one with the big gay piano from MTV, like Elton John right - and like, this gay-ass song about bein a streetwalker and shit - - ”

“Rocket Bitch,” said Pickles, and he thought he heard Magnus say, _You talked to Sophie?_ but ignored it, choosing to cut Murderface off instead as he spewed words ahead:

“ - - and like suckin’ dick and - - ”

“Rocket Bitch.  Yeah.  That wasn’t s’posed to be for Snakes.  Wrote it for a chick but her band didn’t buy it, y’know.  I thought it was funny.  Had a good riff, too good to waste,” he said, and Murderface stared at him.

“You were _sellin_ it?”

“Yeah, that’s what you do, with like, pop songs… you buy ‘em, ya sell ‘em.  Easy money.  I wrote a few for other people too, later on.  Eh… but that one, it’s from her point of view.  So, you know.”

Magnus was grinning at him, and gave an F sharp strum in his direction.  “Play that, then.  You gotta know the words to it, right?” he said, and Pickles eyed him.

“Okay, I’m livin on a fuckin floor thanks to those cunt-ass douchebags, I don’t really wanna - - ”

“Yeah, play Liquid Sunshine!” chimed in Murderface.

“Play Water Horsey Blues!”

“ - - play it - no!  Absolutely, no.  My foot is down, okay?”  Pickles put his foot down, and the kick gave a little thud in response.

“No Snakes N Barrels,” he said finally, and Magnus hummed to himself.

“You know what’s _gay_ , Willy?” he purred, giving a playful thrust against the back of his guitar and then flinching as his dick twanged with pain.

“That, pretty sure,” said Pickles quietly with a cocked eyebrow, but William just frowned at the guitarist.

“What?”

“Fuckin ass… Judas Priest.”

“ _NO!!!!!!_ ”  Murderface sounded like a fucking puma, and Pickles instinctively put his hands over his ears.  “Judas Priest are _not_ gay!!!  Judas Priest are _awesome!!!_ ”

Pickles could see Magnus’ ear to ear smile, and his own popped up with a vicious twitch.  “Oh, man.  Dude.  Judas Priest are totally gay.  _Everyone_ knows  Rob Halford is gay.  That’s why his voice went like that, too many dicks - - ”

“ _Judas Priest are not!  Gay!_ ”

“You are listening to the same songs as us, right,” said Magnus, playing with the riff to _Evil Fantasies_ on his Les Paul idly.  “That S &M stuff…”

“ _What_ S&M stuff??  No!”

“Rob Halford, man,” sneered on Pickles, “Rob Halford, is gay _and_ sober.  Rob Halford, dude, I _know_ Rob Halford.  I went to parties at his house.  Rob Halford has, like, a boyfriend.  Jesus.  A ‘life partner’.”

“ _NO!!!!!!!_   _SHUT UP._ ”

“Rob Halford, lemme tell ya, I went to Rob Halford’s house and I saw his cock ring, dude.  Hangin’ up with the keys.  Rob Halford, I went to a party at the Osbournes’ place over in London and Rob Halford was there, and I sucked him off - - ”

“ _NO!!!!!???!  That’s gay!  You’re gay!_ ”

“ - - I really did, I sucked off Rob Halford in a closet in London, in Ozzy Osbourne’s freaking closet.  That really happened.  True story.”  Pickles shot a wink at Magnus, the other man’s face open like a sickle moon with his predatory grin.

Murderface, his face red and puffy on the verge of tears, looked Pickles straight in the eye, his lip trembling with betrayal and rage.  “That’s _bullshit!_ ” he spat, and Pickles pursed his lips back at him.

“Prove it.”

“You said you weren’t _gay!_ ”  Fucking fascinating.  The poor kid had gone purple.  They were watching him have a crisis right now, right here, in front of them, and there was nothing he could do to escape.  “Suckin’ Rob Halford’s ding-a-ling, that’s _gay!_ ”

Pickles rolled his eyes dramatically.  “Uh, _nuh?_   That don’t count,” he said, and Magnus backed him up:  “It don’t count, Willy.”

“It don’t count - - ”

“Cuz it’s Rob Halford,” finished Magnus for him, smirking, “Rob Halford’s a legend.”  He levelled his lazy gaze at Pickles, grinning gamely at him.  “You like Judas Priest?  We could do Judas Priest.  Murderface knows _all_ of Judas Priest.  Maybe if he _listens_ to the lyrics he’ll learn something, too...”

Pickles shifted on the drum stool, sitting up to attention.  “Yeah, I’m game.  What’ll it be?  What’s the _gayest_ Judas Priest song?  _Turbo Lover?_ ”

“Mm.  _Eat Me Alive_ ,” oozed Magnus, tuning his guitar appropriately.

“ _Before The Dawn!_ Oh, _don't let the morning take him..._ that’s _gay._ ”

“ _Ram It Down_!” 

Magnus made a fist in triumph, and “No!” whinged Murderface, clutching his bass.

“ _For all the years it bore the load... JAAAWbreaker!_ ”

“ _I've heard the rumors and it seems they're comin' true, you give me..._ _pain!_ ”  Magnus let the riff ring.  “ _But you bring me pleasure_.”

Pickles had ripped through with a different drum line.  “ _Ya never do things by half, you're a man with a reputation - you take it all, you take it all the way!_ ”

“ _No!_   It’s _metaphorical!_ ” squealed Murderface, and Pickles caught his cymbals.

“Wait, I know.  I know.  _Exciter._ ”  He pointed his stick at Magnus again.  “We’re doin’ _Exciter_.”  And Magnus scoffed at him.

“Okay, you fuckin’ masochist.”

“ _No.  Exciter_ is _good!_ ” came Murderface’s whine, and Pickles smirked at him.

“Then you’ll be able to do it justice, right, Murderface?”

The younger man’s red eyes seemed to cross, even as Magnus switched his amp off standby.  “Eughhh... I guess...”

“Okay then.  Here goes nothin’.”  Pickles took a deep breath, let it out to still himself, and then rolled out the opening fill easily, so easily it could have been molten steel.  When he launched into the intro it was at double the speed of the original, Magnus flashing him a look of panic as he fumbled with the riff, Murderface’s eyes bugging with concentration as he kept up.

“Fuck, Pickles!”

But Pickles was not listening, throwing his lungs into the opening verse.

 _“Racing 'cross the heavens_  
_Straight into the dawn,_  
_Looking like a comet_  
_Slicing through the morn,_  
_Scorching the horizon_  
_Blazing to the land,_  
_Now he's here amongst us_  
_Age of fire's at hand!”_

His fills pounded across the skins as Murderface and Magnus’ guitars grew muddy on top of one another, and his voice screeched over them with terrifying range and strength.  Murderface eyed him as he slaved on over the bass, listening closely to the lyrics.  So far, so good.  Exciter was a pretty cool dude.

“ _Stand up for Exciter_  
_Salvation is his task,_  
_Stand up for Exciter_  
_Salvation bids to ask!”_

Murderface’s head bobbed in time with his fingers galloping on the strings, concentrating hard on the lyrics even as Magnus lurched theatrically with the close of the chorus.  He couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be stand _up_ for Exciter but.  It had to be, right?  Murderface trusted Pickles, Pickles was a cool dude too.  In a way, maybe Pickles _was_ – hear him out here – _was_ the Exciter.  In the sense, right, that he brought life, a kind of salvation into the band.  Two rehearsals in, and Murderface already couldn’t imagine their music without him.

“ _Everything he touches fries into a crisp,_  
_Let him get close to you, hell, so you're in his grip,_  
_First you'll smoke and smolder, blister up and singe,_  
_When ignition hits you the very soul of your being will cringe!_

 _Stand up for Exciter_  
_Salvation is his task,_  
_Stand up for Exciter,”_

Pickles drew a breath:

_“Here he comes now!”_

And Murderface froze as the music dropped off, Pickles and Magnus jeering around their inane grins in unison as Magnus dropped down: _“Fall to your knees, and repent if you please!”_

“NO!!”

But Magnus was already into the solo, Pickles cackling over his drums underneath and then looking down at the kneeling guitarist, the overdrives and tubes crunching and folding around the notes with feedback as Magnus raised his guitar and played it high against his chest.  Murderface thought he saw Pickles shoot a sideways look at him, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his lip, as Magnus leapt to his feet again.  With every fill, Pickles whipped them faster, barrelling headlong towards the end of the song.

 _“Who is this MAAAN?!_  
_Where is he from?_  
_Exciter COMES_  
_For everyone!”_

Murderface’s bass dropped off in horror, lost beneath Magnus’ outrageous cackling, struggling to keep the bridge riff together.

_“You'll never see him!_

_But you!_  
_Will!_  
_TASTE!_  
_The!_  
_Fire!_  
_Upon!_  
_Your!_  
_Tongue!”_

 _“NO!!!”_ screeched Murderface, holding his hair over his ears in horrible realisation as Magnus tore through the second solo, ripping it unrecognisable.

 _“When he’s in amidst us with combustive dance_  
_ALL shall bear the branding of his thermal LANCE,_  
_Cauterizing masses melting into one_  
_Only when there's order will his job be done!!!_

 _Stand up for Exciter_  
_Salvation is his task!!_  
_Stand up for Exciter_

_NOW!!!!!!!”_

Magnus ripped his hand down the strings, his eyes shot with bloodthirst.  _“Surrender your soul to the gods rock n’ roll!”_ he roared, and Pickles squealed back as he sprung into the final solo even as Murderface was curling up on the couch in depression.  Magnus was clumsy, but deeply passionate, rushing through the riffs towards the close – although Pickles insane kick speed started to drop off mid “ _Stand up for Exciterrr!!!!!”_ , and fell completely away before the last fills, realising that with every riff, Magnus sprayed more blood over the silver pickups of his guitar.

“Magnus!  _Magnus!_ ” he snapped, and then gave a brief cough against his dry throat, the guitarist strumming on with butchering, sweeping strokes.  “ _Magnus_.  It’s over.  Dude!  It’s _over._ ”

And he smashed the crash cymbal with a stick to get his attention, Magnus finally letting the guitar hang stiff around his neck, panting behind his teeth, the blood rolling down the shiny black shell of the Les Paul and staining the fingers of his right hand red.  He gave a lurch in the silence, falling back against his amp with a howl of feedback before he flicked the switch to standby – leaving a smear of blood – and leaned his bony ass against its top, the sweat sticking his hair to his face.

“Your hand’s a fuckin mess, dude,” said Pickles, and the guitarist looked down.

“Oh.  Yeah.  I nicked my fingernail during that bridge,” he murmured, inspecting it.  Pickles frowned at him.

“You coulda said something.  We would have stopped.”

But Magnus just shrugged.  “It’s nothing,” he said, and raised his head to stab his chin at Murderface.  “Willy.  Doin’ all right there?”

Murderface was _not_ doing all right.  He looked about to cry again, and Pickles couldn’t help but feel sympathy – he’d been through those crises, all right, many a time.  Maybe a little different, maybe a little more personal, when an idol of his had tried to attack him in the back of a club, say, or let slip something to remind him why he stayed closeted while they were in the greenroom.  But that was in the beautiful days, behind him now.  “Yeah,” breathed Murderface quietly, and Magnus picked at his bloody fingers idly.

“Say, Willy.  Isn’t it about time for the eight o’clock bus?” he asked, not looking up at the young man, and Murderface raised his head slightly, his green eyes souring with resentment.

“Yeah.”

“Thinkin’ you might wanna head home ‘fore the bad guys come out ‘round here.”  Magnus cast a glance aside at Pickles, and explained, “Bad neighbourhood,” though it was obvious he was just handing Murderface an excuse to get out and cry somewhere.  The kid took it, standing up with his shoulders hunched over himself.

“Leavin’ my bass here, though,” he said, and Magnus shrugged.

“All good, buddy.  I’ll see you later.”

And that was, apparently, it.  Murderface shuffled to the door, stood with his hand on the turn lock a moment, said, “Pickles.  That was really... really, like... good, though, anyway, like, fuck.  Whatever,” to the door, and then let himself out, the door slamming shut heavy behind him.  Magnus and Pickles sat in silence, and then Magnus slowly pulled his guitar strap over his head.

“Uh,” said Pickles, stretching his legs beneath him before he attempted to stand, “So, kid’s gay, right?”

Magnus hung his head as he put aside the guitar, nodded it with a bounce of his curls, but said nothing.  When he finally opened his mouth, it was only to say: “But, you know. I don’t wanna be the one to tell him so, Jesus.”

“Right,” said Pickles, standing and cracking his back sickly.  He shot a snide smile back at Magnus as he crossed to the kitchen sink, bending to drink from the tap with his voice echoing in the bowl.  “He thinks the sun shines outta your ass, dude.”

“Gawd, I know.”  Magnus looked up at the ceiling with a grimace, his teeth a sharp row of pegs over his curled lower lip.  “I cannot handle that, shit.”  He sighed, slumping and sitting fully on his amp, and sucked the blood off his fingers for a second, then looked sideways at Pickles as the guy gulped back water.  “’Nother cone, buddy?”

Pickles surfaced with a gasp.  “Whatever.  Sure.  I ain’t goin’ anywhere I s’pose.  I’ll just curl up in one of them chairs tonight, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You can sleep with me if you want,” murmured Magnus, watching him pass through the kitchen back to the lounge, and Pickles snorted at him, pointing a finger in his face as he walked past him.

“Nuh, you’ll _take advantage_ of me, I know your kind,” he teased, and Magnus curled a half grin at him.

“My dick’s held together with nylon right now, thanks to someone.  I ain’t gettin’ happy for a good while yet.”  Magnus stood up slowly, moving past Pickles as the drummer dropped into an armchair and into his room, returning with full chopbowl and bong and sitting sideways opposite him, his legs slung over the arm of the chair. 

“Was halfway through this one,” he explained, packing it mutely, and Pickles watched him curiously.

“They put you on good drugs for that?” he asked, and Magnus shrugged.

“Not as good as in the hospital.”

“Right.”  Pickles fought a roll of his eyes, rocking the chair idly beneath him with his weight.  “How long does it take?”

“Six weeks.”  Magnus finished packing the cone and held up the bong to check the water level, finding it pleasing enough.  “Four to go.”

“Shit.  No sex?”

“No sex.  No jacking off, for another two at least.  Fucking _canes_ in the mornings.”  Magnus sucked his bloody finger again, and then looked up cautiously at Pickles from under his curls, wondering if the guy would understand what he meant without a, you know, _real_ dick.  “Cuz, you get hard,” he explained when he found Pickles just staring at him, and cast his gaze down to the glass bulb of the bong in his lap, “When you sleep.  Whether you like it or not.  Usually wakes me up, unless I dope up proper before.”

“Shit.  I’m sorry, dude,” said Pickles mutedly, leaning on his fist and watching as Magnus lit up, but the guitarist didn’t respond, belching smoke and immediately dropping his head for another hit. 

Pickles thought he heard, “ _It’s not your fault,”_ between gulps, but Magnus didn’t look at him until he was breathing out the second lungful, snorted out his nose like a dragon as he turned in his seat and passed the bong to the drummer.  “Be careful, it’s strong,” he murmured, and Pickles took it with a little snort.

“Yeah, good luck flooring me.  I grew up on the stuff,” he said, and took the hit deep.  As he let the smoke curl out of his mouth, well aware Magnus was watching him closely out of the corner of his eye, he added softly, “I think if I couldn’t jack off, I’d actually go crazy, man.”

Magnus said nothing, smiled at him languidly, and got up again, switching the white light off in the kitchen to leave just the yellow standing lamp in the corner of the lounge area.  In the darkness he looked like a shadow, long limbed, as he opened a drawer and then returned to Pickles, flicking something square at him as he sat back down.

Pickles caught it messily and held it up to inspect.  A blister sheet of pills, mostly popped.  He turned it between his fingers idly.  “They gave ya oxies,” he observed, looking up at Magnus, and the guitarist was still just smiling at him with all the curl and tooth of a panther.

“Alice In Chains bullshit,” he said softly, and then admitted with a smile, “Tried to snort ‘em, but they make ‘em too hard to crush.” 

Pickles finished up the bowl, and then gradually realised he was being watched, tipped his head curiously.

“What?” he said, and Magnus reached down for the block of beers they’d been working through with Murderface, holding out another can to him.  Pickles took it gladly, but then just sat there, his belly littered with bong and lighter and pills as he cracked it open.  He looked down at the paraphernalia, and then it occurred to him.

“I’m not gonna take these,” he laughed, and flicked the pills back at Magnus as the guitarist was going for his own beer.  Magnus let them fall onto his chest, gave a little sigh, and then popped half of them out into his hand, bolting them back with a swig of beer, and Pickles snorted at him.

“You’re gonna run outta oxies before you run outta mornin’ gories,” he pointed out, and Magnus sneered back at him, tossed the pill packet at his face.

“Ungrateful lil’ sod.  After all I done for you.”  Magnus lay back, sucking on his bloody finger again, as though he was licking the pill residue off his fingers.  Pickles watched him, turned the pill packet in his fingers.

“Y’ain’t done nothin’.”

“Gave you a place to sleep.  I buy you drinks.  I give you all the grass you can eat.  And the hospital’s gonna bleed me to death for this lil’ screw up.”  Magnus seemed to be talking to himself, and Pickles rolled his eyes, very familiar with this guilt trip.  The guitarist only looked up to smile at him and wiggle his wounded fingers.  “I work myself down to the _bone_ for you guys.”

“Okay, whatever.”  Pickles punched out four of the pills and swallowed them with the beer, judging that to be a safe amount, and made a show of gulping them back.  When he looked back, Magnus was smiling, very satisfied.  “Ya happy?”

“Don’t feel guilty?  Relapsing?” purred Magnus, and Pickles slumped in the cosy armchair.

“Ain’t relapsing, it’s just pills.”  He was aware that he’d had a very large amount of drugs all at once, but since Magnus had too, Pickles didn’t think much of it.  He sat with his hands on his stomach and listened as Magnus talked softly to him, the weed and oxycodone lowing him gently as they settled in – the story Magnus was telling was about an ex-girlfriend again, a good girl who he called ‘Xanax Girl’ due to her habit.  She used to carry around a powder case with a flip mirror and kept the pills in the space for the pad, and snorted them, crushed, off the mirror, and she told him he was evil for supplying her, and ultimately just disappeared into the night.  That had been in L.A.  Pickles stared into nothing, his head low, eyelids drifting closed of their own accord, and said, “Sounds like you’ve had... a lotta girlfriends.”

“Never last long,” said Magnus, just as low, his pink eyes slits as he watched Pickles drifting off.

“Huh,” the drummer murmured, and must have blinked out, because suddenly Magnus was standing over him without him even seeing him get up.  His face swimming in Pickles’ vision as he leaned over him and dropped a handful of pills onto his chest.  Pickles looked down at them, realising in a wash like a wave over the shore that Magnus had not swallowed anywhere near what he’d thought.  Maybe two at most.  Just faked it to make him swallow them.

Pickles smiled vacantly, weakly, his arms locked by his sides by the weight of the drugs, sunk there.  “Y’took advantage of me, dude,” he managed, and Magnus smiled peacefully at him, stroking his wounded fingers down Pickles’ cheek – numb, disconnected.

“Nah,” he breathed, and crouched before Pickles, taking both his hands and holding them as he looked up at the drummer and smiled.  His hands were warm, and Pickles’ arms felt like he was dead – he felt, all over, like he was dead.  Magnus’ smile screwed up slightly, looked sad for barely a second, and then softened again.  “Yeah.  Okay, I guess I did.  Sorry, buddy.  I just wanted to see if I could.”

“You... cunt...” Pickles managed to gasp, his hands heavy in Magnus’, and melting into the familiar opium low with deep, sticky pleasure.  But he must have let his eyes shut then, as the next thing he knew was Magnus leaning over him, the curtains of his curls around his face as his warm lips met Pickles' mouth, and squeezing the hands that held his as they kissed.  A thing that ripped him in half, that felt so painful and sad like a great wound from his throat to his groin and full of rotting poppies.  There was no way he could allow this to happen, and yet he did, opened his mouth against the kiss and let Magnus in.

He witnessed no more of the night beyond glimmers and lurches, fingers coiling into dark oily curls and halting breathing, until he opened them again to morning light through the black flag over Magnus’ window, the guy stretched out beside him with his feet by Pickles’ head and his face at the foot of the mattress.  Pickles felt like death warmed up, a shiver of withdrawal, and struggled to focus his eyes on the mould spots on the plaster ceiling.

He did a quick stocktake.  All limbs still in place.  Magnus had undressed him totally except for his socks, likely largely due to Pickles never wearing underwear if he could avoid it, and the guitarist was asleep by his side looking dishevelled in his black nightshorts and snoring softly into the bare mattress, all fur and sinew.  There was music on the stereo, softly, a dreamy guitar wall CD on repeat that Pickles did not recognise.  There was absolutely no chance of him getting up to check, either, since he had apparently died during the night.  The best he could do was flop his hand onto Magnus’ thigh and try to wake him up.

“Mag... Mag.  Wakup,” he slurred, and the guitarist stirred with a wince, curling in on himself.  He was awake.  Pickles managed to push himself into a sitting position, his ghost remaining flat on the mattress by the feeling in his head.  “Wha’d we do.  Mag.”

Magnus curled up, clutching his pillow, and pretended he didn’t hear.  Well, Pickles knew how to get something out of him.

“Wha’s this, music,” he mumbled, poking Magnus in the side with a numb finger, and Magnus gave a soft, sleepy hum.

“ _Lovelesssss.._. em... em-bee-vee.”

Whatever the fuck that meant.  Pickles gazed down at him, his eyeballs rolling in his skull, and Magnus smiled in his doze.  He looked quite lovely in the dawn light, his curls framing his face and lit with a honey gold, his dick hard in his shorts and doped out of his mind to avoid the pain, and Pickles wished he’d gotten to spend the morning with him the other time.  No such luck.

“Magnus, did we fuck,” he rasped, and Magnus opened one red eye to look up at him.

“Nuh.  Dick’s broke,” came the reply, mumbled and drooled into the pillow, and the eye closed again.

“Yeah, but.”  Pickles swayed slightly, catching himself on his arm before he fell over again.  “This is fuck music, dude...”

This time, Magnus didn’t open his eye as he mumbled, “Ate you out,” into his pillow, and Pickles stared at him.

“Oh.”  He shifted his leg slightly, not sure about that phrase.  _Suck dick_ was usual, _suck dick_ was normal.  He’d shelled out for the dick, knew just as well as Magnus what dick surgery felt like, even if it turned out smaller than he’d like.  _Eat out_ was something else, _eat out_ was weird, getting tongue in and all that.  Dudes weren’t into that.  Pickles wasn’t into doing that with girls.  Got real messy, you know?  So why would Magnus be.

Weird dude all up, with this lovely-dovey loveless grunge bullshit, and all his comics, and getting Pickles high just so he could get Pickles off.  Who the fuck did that.  Pickles couldn’t even remember it, save for – if he concentrated _really_ hard – fleeting specks of yellow light, the overwhelming fuzz of the music, kissing Magnus open mouthed and the joint warmth and coolness that came of having his mouth crushed over his soft parts, and a memory of his numb, useless fingers buried in those curls again.

“Was I into it?” he asked, frowning  down at Magnus, and Magnus murmured in the affirmative.  “Okay,” said Pickles, and lay back down beside him.

“’ll do it again if y’want,” slurred Magnus, face down on the pillow, “Prob’ly wasn’t... real good... I was pretty... outta it.  I gotta... gotta admit.  But ya pushed my face down there, n’all.  So.”  

“Nah... ‘m good.  Thanks.”  Pickles shook his head as he turned onto his side, though Magnus was not looking for it.  Seemed a bit much for a morning comedown.  Feeling weird, Pickles leaned his forehead against Magnus’ hairy calf and closed his eyes, but started when he felt a rough finger graze his own ankle, up by Magnus’ face, lightly above the line of his socks.

“Sorry,” said Magnus faintly, almost just a breath, and looked very sad and soft, staring at Pickles’ foot with his finger trailing over the soft skin of his ankle, the distant scars of trackmarks.  “I’m a real... shit person.”

“S’okay, dude,” said Pickles, and he draped his arm around Magnus’ leg.  “So am I, right.  Wanted to be... blitzed, anyway.  Yeah.  Jus’...  don’t make a habit outta it.”  He turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his fingers trailing through the soft leg hair, and felt the weight of it like the world coming down, and added, “Take it from me.”

And, in Magnus’ arms, at least in intent if not actuality, he let sleep take him under again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally going to be a wound-prompt fic, prompted by banerising - "Kiss it better" - and combined with a paragraph of the next fic in this series to a full, uncomfortable fic inspired by SYL's cover of 'Exciter'. I love you, Rob Halford...
> 
> ((Comments always appreciated.))


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